


George Washington Chopped Down a Pining Tree

by Hotel_Denouement



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Meetings, Gen, Halloween Costumes, M/M, No Smut, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2312090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotel_Denouement/pseuds/Hotel_Denouement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tucker is dressed like a Ridley Scott character and Washington is dressed like a fucking nerd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	George Washington Chopped Down a Pining Tree

“You look ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ridiculously _cool._ ”

“Okay, regarding historical accuracy, yeah, your petticoat can be considered cool. But you’re wearing a T-shirt with a galaxy cat underneath it.”

“First of all,” says Washington, stern and somewhat drunk, “it’s just a coat, not a petticoat. Second of all, no I’m not.”

“Your vest is completely unbuttoned, I can _see_ the cat,” says York, amused and considerably more sober for the time being. It’s 11 pm on a Friday night and, to be fair, he and Wash  _both_ look sort of ridiculous, considering it’s a Halloween party and they’re dressed as Prince Eric and George Washington, respectively. York had arrived late to the party, his costume hastily put together at the last minute (he’d heard Carolina would be dressed as Ariel), and when he stepped into the house North was encouraging a tipsy Wash to eat something and giving him a glass of water before he was too far gone. North had always been the caretaker of their little clique at school, but Wash was the youngest of the entire senior class, not expected to turn eighteen until after graduation, and as of tonight also turned out to be a bit of a lightweight.

He is also eating a pomegranate, which was apparently the first thing North could find for Wash to eat, and despite being much steadier on his feet and focused in his gaze than he was when York first encountered him in the kitchen, Wash is making a huge mess.

“In addition to the cat shirt,” York continues, unfurling several sheets of paper towels and pressing them into Wash’s free hand, “your George Washington costume is quickly becoming a Zombie George Washington costume, which is definitely ridiculous.”

“Like I said,” says Wash, wiping the violently red pomegranate juice from his face, “ridiculously _cool._ ” His face is still hopelessly stained, as are the collar of his coat and waistcoat and the front of his galaxy cat shirt. With the gory fruit in his hand, he looks like he’s been eating someone’s heart.

“Could you _make_ any more of a mess?”

“It’s a pomegranate and I’m drunk, what do you want from me?”

“You’re not that drunk. Go to the bathroom; I saw, like, three of those gallon-sized jugs of fake blood in there.” He takes the last remnants of Wash’s pomegranate snack and the damp red paper towels, and turns Wash around to push him in the direction of the bathroom. “If you can’t clean up, you can at least make it look deliberate, _and_ make your costume less lame.”

“History isn’t lame,” Wash argues, but he accepts the light shove towards the bathroom, a steady sliver of light from across the darkened but strobing living room turned dance floor.

He’s jostled by drunken friends and classmates but manages to make it to the bathroom without stumbling too much. The door is slightly ajar so he doesn’t think to knock first, but when he pushes the door open he discovers the bathroom is occupied. There’s someone standing in the shower, fully clothed and sloshing fake blood from a jug onto his own chest. Wash recognizes him, sort of—he’d seen him earlier talking to Carolina and her brother, but he’s been wearing a mask of a Facehugger alien from the movie _Alien_. Wash hasn’t actually seen that movie, but knows enough through cultural osmosis, and surmises from the little pink plastic thing lying next to two more gallon jugs of blood on the bathroom counter that Facehugger Guy’s costume has a second part to it, and Wash has just walked into its implementation.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Facehugger Guy says pointedly, but before Wash can point out that the door wasn’t even closed, Facehugger Guy asks, “Dude, have you been eating out a girl on her period?”

“What? No!” Wash steps further inside and shuts the door hastily behind him, lest everyone else hear this particular line of conversation. “I’ve been eating a pomegranate.”

“Is that a gay thing? Bow chicka bow wow.”

“ _No_ , I was eating an actual pomegranate! From a pomegranate tree!”

“Nerd,” Facehugger Guy snorts, returning to his task, which involves spilling blood all over himself and cutting a hole in his shirt with a pocketknife. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Washington,” says Wash, moving to the sink and examining his reflection in the mirror. He turns the water on and tries to wash the juice stains from his hands and face.

“Yeah, no shit, dude, the powdered wig and breeches kind of gave that away. Nice cat shirt, though. I meant your name.”

“My name _is_ Washington,” Wash insists. He hasn’t introduced himself as David since he was in eighth grade and there were five Davids in his math class.

Facehugger Guy raises his hands, eyes rolling above the rubbery alien mask. “Whatever, nerd, stay in character if it’s that important to you. My name’s Kane, then.” He reaches over and grabs the chestburster alien from the counter, and pauses briefly to watch Wash struggle to rinse the pomegranate stains from his chin. “I wouldn’t count on all that red shit coming off anytime soon, George. Might as well help yourself to some blood, make it look like you did it on purpose.”

Sounds like York had the right idea. So Wash grabs one of the two jugs on the counter and steps into the bathtub and says, “Move over,” to the Facehugger Guy, Kane. He’s not super drunk, but his attention to good manners has gone out the window.

“Wow, okay, asshole.” But Kane moves over, making room for him, and as Wash unscrews the lid on the blood jug, he wonders if he’s the only one pondering the oddity of this situation, standing fully clothed in a bathtub dressed as George Washington with another guy, also fully clothed, pouring fake blood all over the front of his clothes while Kane pokes a plastic alien baby through a ragged hole in the chest of his T-shirt.

 _And I’m not even that drunk,_ Wash muses, dousing his hand in blood and dragging it wetly over his mouth and chin.

“How do I look?” he asks Kane when he feels adequately bloodied.

Kane gives him two red thumbs up. “Like a fucking lunatic. What about me?”

Wash looks at the chestburster prop in his chest and the facehugger mask on his face. “It’s a boy. But you still look pregnant.”

“Yeah, help me get this mask off,” Kane says, turning his back to Wash. “It was cheap as fuck at the dollar store but my fingers keep sleeping on the fucking head straps.”

“Sure, I got it.” Wash fumbles with the rubbery straps, his fingers also slippery and his coordination subpar from the alcohol in his system, and he’s starting to get frustrated when he finally unhooks the fucking things. Kane peels the mask off with the soft, sticky noise of rubber and sweat, and turns to face Wash again with a deep, thankful breath unhindered by the costume.

Inhibitions slightly lowered and tendency for honesty heightened, Wash nods sagely at Kane’s bare face and says, “Okay, wow, yeah—you definitely look good for just having a kid.”

The look on Kane’s face is one of bewilderment, but in the vaguely sickly yellow light of the bathroom Wash can see his cheeks flush darker under brown skin, and Kane laughs, startled.

“Holy shit, uh—I’m not drunk enough yet to know how to respond to that. Bow chicka bow wow?”

The volume of the party outside the bathroom rises with the beat of a new song pumping from the stereo, and it gets even louder when the bathroom door bangs open, Michael J. Caboose barging in.

“Tucker! Lieutenant McMuffin is winning the whole party!” Caboose announces into the bathroom, most likely flushed with excitement as opposed to booze. His train of thought derails visibly at the sight of Wash and Kane, or Tucker, or whatever the hell this guy’s name is, standing in the bathtub together. “Oh. My. God. Are you playing Seven Minutes in Heaven? Did I interrupt? Am I playing too? Am I late? Do I have to have sex in a bathtub? I don’t really want to.”

“Oh my God, Caboose, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Chestburster Guy groans, and the moment is over. He jostles Wash in his exit from the bathtub and leaves red footprints on the tile floor despite their efforts at containing the mess in the bathtub, leaving the bathroom and melting into the throbbing mass of drunken teenagers. Wash is left alone in the bloody tub and feeling slightly melancholic, but perks up when York pokes his head into the bathroom, his sloppy black wig crooked.

“You finished yet?” York grins at the sight of Wash’s improved costume. “ _Nice._ Get out here, this Donut kid is leading an entire dance line, it’s not bad.”

And so Wash continues to maneuver through the party, nursing another cheap beer and enduring North’s periodic glass of water, fake blood drying on his face and clothes. The music is loud and the air is thick and warm, and _someone’s_ ass is grinding rhythmic circles on his crotch (it could be Connie or that Donut kid, Wash can’t really tell at this point), but he can’t help but scan the entire party in the strobing lights in hopes of catching a glimpse of Chestburster Kane Tucker Guy. And the drunker he gets, the more desperate he finds himself just to at least _see_ him. Why are there so many people at this party?

Eventually he collapses onto a sofa, dizzy and depressed, next to— _Church!_ He doesn’t talk to Church that often, but he’s seen Chestburster Guy hanging out with him at school, and Wash’s hopes rise from the steadily collecting ashes. Church isn’t wearing a costume and he’s drinking from a red cup but looks relatively sober, so Wash leans over to him and hollers over the music, “You’re friends with Kane, right?”

“What?” Church yells back.

“ _Kane!_ You’re friends with Kane, aren’t you?”

Church gives him a look that’s way too exasperated for this one instance of confusion. “Who the fuck is Kane?”

“Wh—the Chestburster Guy!” Wash says impatiently, making the general chestbursting motion in front of his chest. “He was in the Facehugger mask before, said his name was Kane!”

Church stares at him for a moment, then says, “Kane is the name of the guy in the movie, you fucking idiot! His name’s Tucker, Lavernius Tucker.”

“Oh,” Wash says lamely. He ponders this, then yells into Church’s ear, “Is he single?”

“Oh my God, go home, dude!”

“Yeah, I got him,” says North, emerging from the crowd and jingling his car keys. “Thanks for the invite, Leonard. Come on, Wash, I’m gonna take you home.”

Wash lets North pull him up from the couch and helps him through the dancing bodies to the front door. Outside, the late October air is chilly and crisp, and it feels good on Wash’s overheated skin even though the change in temperature and air quality makes his head spin more than it already is. He peers blearily down the driveway at North’s car, where North’s sister sits leaning out the passenger window, vomiting violently down the side of the car door.

“Hey, North?” Wash says imploringly as North piles him into the back seat. “Do you know Lavernius Tucker?”

“That’s it, sis, better out than in. Um, Lavernius Tucker? Yeah, I have calculus with him. Why?” North climbs into the car and adjusts the rearview mirror, focusing on Wash’s reflection back there. “Buckle your seatbelt, Wash.”

“I met him tonight,” Wash says, struggling with his seatbelt. His fingers feel fat and stupid. “I liked him.”

“I’m sure he liked you, too,” North says patiently, backing into the dark street. “I’ll introduce you on Monday. Roll the window down if you need to throw up.”

“Got it.” The glass of the window is cold and lovely against his cheek. He leaves streaks of red against it and, foggily, he wonders if his messy red fingers left messy red marks on Lavernius Tucker’s mask or, even better, the back of his neck. Wash grins and, with a background ambience of North’s sister puking, hopes he did.


End file.
